It was a very good year
by Scarlet Secret
Summary: In the midst of wartime two women connect and form a bond that may not be enough to sustain them both through these difficult years. Rosamund/Vera. Rating will go up. Femslash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **For a very long time indeed Rosamund and Vera have been the best secondary OTP a girl could have and I thought it was about time I put them into an epic fic! And so their journey begins in the home of one Susan Flintshire...

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><p><em><strong>1.<strong>_

_**December 1915**_

Lady Rosamund Painswick could honestly say that above all other women in society – with the exception of Ava bloody Astor who wasn't just a thorn in her side but a poison on her whole soul – she _hated_ her cousin Lady Susan Urquhart, Marchioness of Flintshire. They had never seen eye to eye, even as children and despite sharing many opinions and being of an age to be playmates, she had never quite taken to Susan. Perhaps it was because she had always been a great favourite of her Mothers? Or perhaps it was because she was such a terrible, condescending bitch? Either way as a woman old enough to decide who her playmates should be Rosamund had long since decided that Susan's house was good for one thing and one thing alone: hiding from the rain.

It had struck whilst she was out, as rain was want to do, and Rosamund had been obliged to run to the nearest place she knew would be open to her to seek shelter from the sudden horrendous downfall. Unfortunately that happened to be Susan's townhouse on the corner of Grosvenor Street and so she found herself sitting in a thoroughly gaudy sitting room, pretending that she was paying her Mama's respects, because she refused point black to give her own, and wondering why on earth anyone would decorate their home in the Oriental style in this day and age. If she had been visiting anyone else she would have allowed her mind to drift and answered their polite questions automatically but this was Susan after all and the slightest slip was likely to make its way into a letter to her Mama and even if it didn't Susan herself would never forget it.

"How is Cora these days? I quite forgot to ask about her in my last letter to Aunt Violet and I know how Downton has a tendency to pivot on her whims."

Rosamund bit her tongue. If she and Susan were uncivil to mask their dislike then Cora and her cousin were outright antagonistic; it was generally quite amusing for Rosamund, she so rarely saw Cora anything but blandly pleasant and she really did have something of a bite when riled, as she often was by Susan. It hadn't helped that in the early days there had been talk of a marriage between Susan and Robert – they had been quickly forgotten about when Susan had improbably secured a Marquis – nor had Susan having two sons – something she never, ever let Cora forget.

"She's quite well as I understand it. Certainly better than she was this time last year."

It had been terrible and even Susan couldn't scoff at a woman faced with a miscarriage at her time in life: it was a wonder it hadn't killed her and the lasting effects to her health had not been improved by the weather turning.

"I'm glad to hear it," Susan sipped her tea and stared into the cup as though it would offer her some topic for discussion, before she looked to the picture on the wall and seemed to strike upon a thought. "Lawrence is thinking of signing up."

Rosamund had to contain the desire to roll her eyes. The most tedious thing in the world, as far as she was concerned, was listening to people talk about their children. Having never had any herself and therefore not boring people with tales of their every move she didn't see why she should be consigned to a life of listing to the rubbish being relayed to her: _she_ didn't insist on telling them about her every project so why should she be obliged to listen to other peoples! And to make matters worse Susan really was rather obsessed with her oldest son and it was frankly a record that it had taken till now to mention him.

"Is he mad? The way these boys have been dying I should think you'd rather swaddle him in cotton wool and never let him leave the house."

Susan looked as irritated as her mostly impassive face ever looked. In the past it had been a great joke between Cora and herself that the house could be burning around her and Susan would quite calmly be making sure she had her hair in place before escaping, but now Rosamund was quite sure she could see the first signs of crumbling. Susan never crumbled. When Shrimpy had nearly died in the Boer War she had carried on as though his injuries were tantamount to a bruised knee; when she'd lost her fifth fourth child – and third son as it had turned out – to a rather agonising and prolonged birth the following months had been notable by Susan resuming her life as quickly as possible; but now Lawrence was threatened and one of the great upholders of the British value of a stiff upper lip seemed to be falling apart. Really, Rosamund would feel sorry for her if she wasn't such a horrendous cow.

"I _would_ rather do that. But you know how these boys are…oh what am I saying darling, of course you don't." Susan sipped her drink again and looked like any tremble had long since passed. "How long has it been now since you even _spoke_ to a man under the age of forty?"

It stung and it was designed to. In her youth Lady Rosamund Crawley had not lacked for suitors and neither, her Mama would never cease reminding her, has she lacked for enthusiasm in keeping them all. But after the first few years she'd ceased to be a novelty and after that she'd been a liability to the family and married off to Marmaduke out of necessity. Flirting after that had been fun and the young men had been rather attentive still – she hadn't even been thirty then and she was still attractive – but over the years it had dwindled. The boys had married and grown to men whose wives didn't like her one bit and though new boys had replaced them with each passing year they looked less and the chances of her ever having a child of her own had diminished. Now all that were left were widowers and old bachelors and Susan was quite right to say that not one of them was under forty…in fact, and Rosamund felt another twinge of sorrow, they were probably closer to fifty.

She forced a smile and wondered how quickly she could theoretically make this visit end. The rain didn't seem to be letting up at all so maybe it was time to just consign herself to getting wet and leave: ruining her silk shirt and getting a bit of a chill that could be remedied with a shopping trip and a hot bath seemed a small price to pay.

"I know that my Cousin Matthew has signed up. And one or two of the staff at Eaton Square have gone."

"I bet you're quite lonely there now."

She'd been lonely there since the day she'd moved in but there was very little she could do about it apart from extend as many invitations as she could in the hope that someone would come. All the food her brother sent to her did have a horrible habit of going stale or being passed onto the servants.

"No more than usual. And at least I shan't have to send anyone off to France."

Susan's eyes flickered again and she looked to the door for an extended period of time and Rosamund was half-sure she was going to run away. She tapped her fingernail idly against the side of her cup and didn't respond, instead her gaze not leaving the door and Rosamund was hard pressed not to look around and see what was so fascinating.

"Lawrence will be a credit to the army, I'm sure once he's out there it'll push Shrimpy to speak to the people he knows and see what can be done about all this nonsense."

Rosamund did roll her eyes at this but the expected rebuttal never came when a housemaid…no, not a housemaid going by her age, it must be Susan's personal maid, came into the room and handed a written message to Susan quietly and with a look of deep resentment. The Marchioness' eyes danced over the letter before a look of surprise appeared and Rosamund spotted within a moment that it was entirely fake.

"You'll have to excuse me Rosamund my dear, it seems I'm needed elsewhere."

She was gone before Rosamund even had the chance to be nosey and enquire what the trouble was – and thus force Susan to think of a more thorough excuse – and could she be of any assistance. She didn't _intend_ to be of any assistance of course but it wouldn't hurt familial relations to pretend would it? Instead she put down her tea as Susan left the room and sat alone for a moment, feeling rather foolish. Or at least she thought she was alone.

Rosamund turned back around and found that the maid was still there, putting the cup rather noisily back onto Susan's tea-tray and looking up at her occasionally. Rosamund got the distinct impression that this woman thought she was rather foolish and after a fair few minutes of them remaining mute but the maid continuing to make an indignant racket with the crockery, Rosamund eventually broke.

"What on earth are you staring at?"

The maid looked up at her and bore no sight of being embarrassed to be caught out staring. Instead she looked at the door with some disdain before speaking, not looking round at Rosamund, but speaking to her with an intimate hush that was certainly more pleasant on the ear than Susan's haughty tones.

"You do realise you're supposed t'have gone m'lady?"

"I beg your pardon!"

The dark-haired woman rolled her eyes, but at the invisible spectre of Susan rather than Rosamund herself, and she picked up the tea-tray with extreme dislike on her face when she looked down at the flowery pattern. Normally Rosamund detested resentment like this in staff – she certainly wouldn't allow it in her own home and she knew Robert wouldn't either – but the thorough disgust, as it was for Susan, was oddly satisfying. She had a feeling that if _she_ was stuck with Susan all the livelong day she would also find life a rather tedious affair.

"Lady Urquhart asked me to bring her the note when she started tapping the teacup so she could leave the room," the woman looked thoroughly bored and Rosamund of the impression that it was not the first time she had been made to join in the charade. "I think you're supposed to get the message and leave m'lady. I can promise you she's not coming back."

There was almost a laugh at the end of that sentence and it made Rosmund frown for a moment. Was she being laughed at or was that just the woman's normal turn of phrase? Her voice has a lyrical quality that didn't quite fir the harshness of her eyes but she didn't look like a woman who was especially sensitive to hurt feelings: then again, neither did O'Brien and Cora would write about how comforting her maid was in her own blood given half the chance!

"Am I really that dull?"

"I wouldn't know m'lady. I was listenin' at the door for the noise of the cup, not the conversation."

Rosamund felt indignation swell in her directed squarely at Susan and was fully aware that it must have been showing on her face. She caught the maid's eye for a moment and saw the corner of her lips quirk.

"You find this amusing?"

"No m'lady. I'm just grateful for the opportunity to observe the way my betters behave."

Rosamund was taken aback for the second time and raised her eyebrow dangerously at the maid, something that only seemed to amuse her further. The Irishwoman put the tea-tray down without much care and instead walked over the sofa, taking the cup carefully from Rosamund and silently urging her to get to her feet and leave in a much more subtle and studied way than Susan had managed. She left the room and Rosamund had no option but to follow behind her until they were at the far end of the hall by the door.

Small, pale hands removed a fur from the coat rack and held it out for her pointedly, but not unkindly, and even with a small smile.

"That's not mine."

"I know, I saw yours though m'lady and it's near ruined. I'd say write it off if I were you."

Rosamund thought about her lovely purple coat that had seen her through so many…well autumn's. It hadn't been at all suited to the rain and she wasn't overly surprised even if she was a little put out at owing Susan a fur coat.

"I'll have this one sent back."

"Very good m'lady. I'll see if your coat can be refreshed for you before you come again."

Her hands were surprisingly gentle as they smoothed the lapels down on the soft fur and made her look as presentable as she'd been when she arrived at a running pace.

"If you keep goin' to the corner there's always taxis going past m'lady, or I could come and call one for you?"

"No need," Rosamund sighed and contemplated the rain on the other side of the now open door, feeling the hands once again on her shoulder, tucking her scarf into the coat in an odd way. "I'll manage." She turned to the other woman briefly and nodded in thanks. "Give Lady Urquhart my regrets."

The maid's eyebrow twitched for a moment and she smiled softly, leaving Rosamund to the Butler.

"Of course. Good afternoon m'lady."

Rosamund watched the maid begin to disappear into the darkness of the unknown parts of Susan's house, oddly intrigued by the strange woman, but she was soon forgotten as soon as the door closed behind her and she found herself in the midst of a torrential downpour. She might have remembered the odd maid for longer had she not been expounding all of her energy into thoroughly hating Susan more than ever for choosing a moment when the weather was at its absolute worst to throw her out.

She ran down the street she had been told to go along with as much dignity as she could muster until eventually she spotted a taxi coming towards her and managed to flag it down. She breathed a sigh of relief once she was in her seat, assessing her damp clothes and ignoring the drivers sigh as the windows steamed up with her hurried breath.

Rosamund remembered the maid once more when she realised her fur and scarf and hat had been tucked around her in such a way that not one spec of water had reached her lovely new silk shirt.

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><p><strong>AN:** Liked it? Hated it? Thought it was weird? Let me know! :) There will be more!


	2. Chapter 2

_**2.**_

_**October 1916**_

So the old bat was dead was she?

Vera had seen it in the obituaries but scarcely been able to believe that that the Mrs Bates that was dead wasn't somehow her and she'd been living in this state of tedious living death for years now without even realising it. But suddenly there are letters from old friends, people who haven't spoken to either of them since before the troubles started for them and don't know that sending sympathies to Vera was the last thing John wanted. But whether he wanted her to or not, she knew now and where there was a dead parent there was usually some money to be found. Her mother-in-law was a penny-pinching cow and was far too pious to have run up any debts, so there was a _very_ good chance that she was well in pocket when she'd died.

She ran her fingers over the obituary again – the paper came out three days ago and who knows how much longer it had been between the death and her name been put in print – and guessed that John had probably gone back to the house. They'd lived in that house for years; it had been the house that saw the resurgence of the affection they'd felt for each other as youths that had led to their impetuous marriage, seen their happy early days that were always tinged with the sense that something could go wrong at any moment. That, Vera thought bitterly, was probably due to his bloody Mother's continuing insistence that she was no good. She hadn't been much good – even she could admit that – but then neither had John and she had often longed for someone to fight her corner a bit more stridently than John ever bothered to do. She'd been stuck in that house for years with the old bitch when John was away at war and there was probably still a dent in the wall that was the reminder of their first big argument once he came back.

She'd promised herself that as long as she possessed her strength she would never again set foot in that house but then…that promise had been made before there was the promise of money in the house. She was still John's legal wife wasn't she and if there was an inheritance than she was just as entitled to her share as he was and it would be rather amusing to see Johnny after all these years. She hadn't heard a peep from him since he'd gone to jail and she wondered how much he had aged in the meanwhile. Would he still be the handsome man she'd known?

She caught sight of her hands running over the paper and sighed at the lines, frowning at them before realising that would hardly do her face any good. She was far from the woman she had once been. But in character they were both the same: she was still his weakness and she knew that once she turned up he would be waiting for her and the tortured neediness would be her weakness. They'd meet, no doubt they'd fight, but they'd soon fall back into each other's arms just like they always did.

"Vera! Her ladyship has been calling for you for the past ten minutes!"

Vera rolled her eyes and tossed the paper onto her bedside table with a smirk. She was done with this house and Lady Susan bloody Flintshire and ready to try again with John, whether he wanted to or not.

Ignoring the summons she reached into her wardrobe and started extracting clothes, packing them neatly into her carpet bag; there was more than she'd arrived at this house with and not a single item of that was from Lady Flintshire's generosity. Susan had a lot of visitors though and if some of those daft cows insisted on arriving with so much was it any wonder they didn't notice their load was slightly lighter when they left? It was hardly her fault some people had so bloody much they didn't notice the lack of it and the money she'd made on the side from selling some of it would come in very handy when she and John set up house again. She'd want to redecorate that bloody place to begin with and he'd probably want to get a nice headstone for his Mother.

It would all be perfect and if it wasn't…well, she had the dirt on the Crawley's and no mistake. John would come back to her by hook or by crook.

She smiled as she took out the purple coat – something that hadn't been too fancy for her and obliged her to sell it – and tossed it onto the bed to wear as she left the house for good. It was a rather nice autumnal coat after all and had fitted like a dream after she'd taken it out a bit. Honestly why these society women were so bloody skinny when they did nothing all day she would never know! But that one had been alright at least and had the decency to thank her and Vera had laughed to herself all night that she'd taken the woman's gratitude and her coat.

Bags packed, and disregarding the second summons that the housekeeper had all but shouted through the door by locking it and ignoring her knocking, she pulled the coat on and picked up her bag. She waited a little while longer, finished her cup of tea, smoked a cigarette at her leisure, all the time with the corners of her lips twitching at the woman on the other side of the door. She was getting more and more flustered and had moved on from her original irritation to full on worry that Vera might have had a fall or knocked herself out in some way. Some people really did worry far too much.

When she finally pulled open the door the housekeeper was red-faced and furious looking and Vera affected a look of surprise.

"I'm sorry, have you been looking for me?"

The housekeeper huffed and looked her over, dressing in travelling clothes and coat and carrying her belongings.

"And where do you think you're going?"

"Don't know yet," she spoke with amusement threaded through her voice and pushed past the old woman, her eyes dancing with merriment at the thought of never seeing either this old trout or Lady Flintshire again. "Away from here."

"Is Lady Flintshire aware of this?"

Vera smirked as she walked down the corridor.

"Is she aware of anything?"

The housekeeper didn't follow her and she took the opportunity to slip up the servant's staircase, scuffing the wood with her indelicate steps and striding into the entrance hall with her head held high to see Lady Flintshire at the top of the steps. Susan didn't see her though and she went into the drawing room, pawing over her son in his uniform as she so frequently was these days, and Vera sneered after them with utter contempt.

She reached out for the coat rack and removed at least three silk scarves, folding them haphazardly and pushing them into her carpet bag, before the housekeeper's steps could be heard again and she slipped out the front door quickly. She ran down the steps and to the end of the road without looking back; the London traffic zoomed past and several taxis too but Vera was blind to them as she dashed towards the nearest tube station.

John would surely be in his Mother's house by now and my, wouldn't he be pleased to see her.


	3. Chapter 3

_**3.**_

_**July 1917**_

Lady Rosamund Painswick ambled quite happily down Bond Street, pleased that for what felt like the first day that month she was able to be out of doors without it being possible she would be rained on. If London was bad enough under the wet weather then she could only imagine how bad it was in France. Everywhere she went she saw men – boys really – in uniforms that made them look tiny amongst the bulk of rough material and regimental pomp and it was beginning to make her depressed. Even _here_ on Bond Street for god's sake!

The street seemed like a hybrid of what it once was – half men and women she had known for as long as she had lived in London, perusing the shop windows as she was quite secure in the knowledge that should something take their eye they would be able to afford it, and then soldiers, young boys looking out of place and gazing longingly at the expensive things they would buy for their sweethearts if they could. She almost wanted to give them the money but felt it might get a bit out of hand and even her generosity wasn't that great! She'd grown up with a title and the breeding but not nearly enough money to make her an attractive prospect to men with titles like her Father's and marrying Marmaduke Painswick had made her wealthy beyond her wildest dreams, but she wasn't foolish enough to be too charitable. Perhaps if she found one that looked particularly in need?

She scanned the crowds and settled her gaze on one boy. He was standing in front of a shop that Rosamund's sister-in-law through Marmaduke had always purchased her winter knitwear from. Rosamund had always thought its products altogether too plain for her taste but this boy, unlike the others who all seemed to favour jewellery, was staring at a soft and pretty looking cashmere scarf.

"Is it for your sweetheart?"

He jumped and whirled around immediately, flushed the same colour as the scarf and quickly removed his hat all in one movement that left Rosamund a little taken aback. She smiled, amused by his nervousness, and tried to put him at his ease by not sounding too imperious: it was a horrible personality trait she had picked up from her Mama and she didn't want it to get too out of hand less she begin the transformation into being like Violet Crawley at least ten years before she was prepared to resign herself to such a fate.

"The scarf? Is it for your sweetheart?"

"I'd very much like it to be Miss."

Oh _Miss_ as well! Wasn't he awfully sweet! She smiled and stood a little bit closer, reasonably sure that her proximity wasn't going to produce as violet a reaction as her first words to him had.

"Then why don't you get it for her?"

He smiled a little, sad and shy but a little bit charming and Rosamund congratulated herself on picking a target so well. He played with the hat in his hands, fiddling with a single loose thread and judging by the hat and how battered the coat looked she surmised his uniform had either taken a great battering at a recent charge or else this was his spare and he hadn't come out with the intention of coming anywhere near as expensive an area as Bond Street. He did something of a look of him that suggested he was a boy more at home in a pub on the other side of the river.

"Because I don't see that much money in a month. As much as I want to I couldn't spare it for her."

"Is she pretty?"

"I think she's the prettiest girl in the world."

He grinned and reached into his top pocket to produce a small photograph. A girl of about twenty with pale hair and the same sort of light in her eyes that Sybil possessed was sitting for a the photographer with a side smile on her face that spoke of pride and love for the man next to her. How long had he been in this uniform now she wondered? She surreptitiously looked him over and deduced that it was entirely possible he had been fighting since the beginning, which may mean that this poor girl had been waiting with bated breath for three years to find out if her lover would live or die. She doubted the girls smile was quiet so jubilant these days but her pride had doubtless remained undiminished.

Rosamund smiled at the boy softly.

"I'm sure you're quite right."

He grinned at that and she looked back to the scarf in the window thoughtfully.

"I don't mean to embarrass you my dear but would you allow me to give you the money for it? I'd hate for you to worry about her getting cold with the winter coming…"

He shook his head emphatically as Rosamund had expected and began muttering nonsense about how he couldn't possibly and she was too generous but Rosamund decided it was for the best to quite ignore him and she reached into her bag undaunted. She fished out some money and held it out towards him.

"I don't want to hear another objection, take it and buy it for her. Please-"

"I couldn't Miss, really. She'll only wonder what I had to do for it."

Rosamund furrowed her brow.

"What?"

He didn't answer and looked like he dearly wanted to run away, the become one with the crowd again and forget that he had spoken with a kind of woman that nothing but the war could ever put him into cordial contact with. Rosamund wished that she were the sort of person who could accept his reluctance for what it was. Cora would be able to, she knew that much, but she had never been able to let something go once she had gotten the bit between her teeth.

"I haven't asked you to _do_ anything for it, nor am I going to."

He looked pained but not surprised.

"I didn't mean it like that Miss-"

"No, I can well imagine what you meant!"

She thought of the women she had known in her colourful life who would knew it more vivid detail what the young man had meant: there had been Mrs Jenkins and her Wilde loving boys about town, Diana and her fine-skinned, full figured _boys_ and even Lucy Rothes, whom Rosamund had always considered a terrible prude, had a footman with a rather expensive watch. Rosamund had laughed at them, thought them pathetic and thanked her lucky stars that her loneliness had yet to reach those depths. But this boy thought she was one of them; he didn't know who she was, who she had been married too or indeed a single damned thing about her and now he was looking at her as though she was going to eat him alive!

She heard a shout of laughter on the other side of the street and twisted her neck to see if there was someone she knew, watching her being rejected in an attempt to simply be kind. Some of her acquaintances wouldn't have hesitated and Rosamund thought that it really was a sad state of affairs that her best friend, her _only_ friend, was probably her sister-in-law, who tolerated her more than anything.

She turned away from the young man, left him staring after her looking nothing short of relieved to have gotten rid of her and lost herself in the throngs of Bond Street until the crows started to feel oppressive. She had never thought of them as being such before; spending most of her adult life in London meant she had long since grown accustomed to the swell of people but now she felt the need to get away from the shops and the _foolish _young men who would probably never see another winter and didn't know an offer of kindness when it was given to them. She'd heard them talking before now: _ghosts_. They called themselves ghosts because they were as good as dead already and it hurt her heart to think of such things, there'd been wars before of course, even wars when she was a young woman, but somehow it hurt more to be old now. She wasn't even able to give them the comfort of being a fiancé back home unless there really was a young soldier boy that would proudly say to his comrades that a pretty, young, nubile and obliging girl was not for him and instead he was stepping out with a middle-aged widow who he needed to keep quiet about less her Earl brother decide it was an infringement of the family honour!

She turned gratefully off at the end of Bond Street and went past Piccadilly towards Green Park. Not Hyde Park, not today. She couldn't stand the courting couple and people taking advantage of the sunny day to peddle a boat on the lake. It was all too nauseating and she hardly needed reminding of her own loneliness after that incident: the last few years had been awful, with no season to speak of there had been scarcely anyone in town this year. Lady Flintshire was here, the pigeons would leave before Susan did, but Rosamund was damned if she was going to socialise more than was strictly necessary with her! If she was the last woman in London Rosamund expected she'd find more companionship with the vermin.

She began to wonder across the grass, always having preferred this park when she was feeling like this. The sides of Green Park were not thronged with monuments to commemorate the long dead, there were no lakes to attract the flocking birds and very little to mar the view other than the palace and even in her darkest moods Rosamund could hardly begrudge the London skyline that.

The leaves were already beginning to fall which really was a ridiculous state of affairs but she supposed she could hardly blame that on the war too. No, the season would change regardless of what state the world was in and it had been a long summer indeed without the social scene that Rosamund was pleased to see the back of it. The foliage crunched under her feet and she thought of being a girl and playing in the grounds when her Mama's back was turned and was so lost in her walk that she didn't notice the loose brick underfoot and slipped over, her legs going from under her.

"For _god's_ sake."

Everyone walking past seemed to be looking at her as though she was a child of five and though several stepped forwards to offer assistance she repelled them with the force of her glare. She was unsure whether she resented the growing ache in her ankle and backside or her embarrassed cheeks more and when she tried to push herself to her feet the ache only grew.

For a moment Rosamund didn't notice the woman that had come towards her, she was far too busy muttering darkly and with words her Mama would have slapped her for, but when a hand took hers and pulled her to her feet she finally looked up and furrowed her brow.

"You're the one who stole my coat!"

Susan's maid all but dragged her to the nearest bench, rolling her eyes with a rather practiced lack of care, before crouching down next to Rosamund with a sullen look to inspect her ankle.

"Thank you would have done."

"Thank you?"

"See. Wasn't so hard."

Rosamund tried to ignore the looks they were garnering from the other people in the park and instead glared at the other woman unblinkingly, looking over the garment that had undoubtedly once been hers before it had so _mysteriously_ disappeared from Susan's townhouse.

"You have a nerve-"

"I didn't know I was going to find you sitting on your backside in a park today did I?"

Rosamund huffed. "You're rather over-confident for a maid."

"I'm not a maid anymore."

"Susan gave you the sack did she?"

A dark eyebrow being raised was her only reply and the woman reached into her pocket and pulled out a cigarette packet.

"Actually, I left her employment. Rather suddenly."

The woman, who had darker circles under her eyes than Rosamund remembered lit a cigarette and, after tossing the match away, immediately returned to her aching ankle, pressing down rather suddenly. She flinched at the touch but didn't pull away as –

"What's your name?"

"Vera m'lady. Vera Bates."

As Vera lifted her ankle and gently pressed it to see if it was properly hurt Rosamund studied her face and saw more lines than she remembered the maid having at Susan's house but a fur that didn't look knocked off was around the shoulders – of her coat – and her eyes were still sharp so she was clearly far from beaten. The name struck a chord with her and she smiled lightly, ignoring the funny looks they were getting from the passers-by when Vera decided she was bored with crouching and sat on the bench too, forcing Rosamund to twist round so she looked as though she were languishing on the thing. She didn't much care what she looked like though, the warm hands on her ankle were rather soothing and it wasn't as though any of these uniformed children knew who she was anyway. She'd had that fact proven to her all too well.

"Bates. My brother, Lord Grantham, has a Mr Bates working for him. He's not a relation is he?"

Vera's eyes flickered for the slightest of moment but she shook her head and continued to prod at Rosamund's ankle. Rosamund had a feeling that she wasn't going to get an answer beyond that and she made do with it: she didn't really care about Mr Bates' possible relations anyway.

"It wouldn't matter of course. From what I've heard he's had a lot of difficulty lately with his wife…perhaps you know something?"

Vera lowered the ankle carefully onto her own lap and spent a moment indulging in her cigarette, turning her head away to hide her smirk, as though looking at something funny no one else could see. Rosamund felt strange all of a sudden and followed her gaze in the same direction, not expecting to see anything, but wishing, rather against her will, that she would be able to see what was clearly so amusing. Knowing she never would Rosamund instead huffed and shifted on the bench, digging her heel into Vera's lap to regain her attention.

"Not that it makes the slightest bit of difference to me. I'm much more concerned with the fact you've butchered my coat."

Vera turned back to her and raised her eyebrow.

"Butchered? I've made it better."

"No dear," Rosamund's spoke scathingly and her voice dripped with irritation as she flicked her eyes over where the coat had been let out. "You've just made it fit."

Sharp eyes met hers and Rosamund had the distinct impression that she was supposed to be chastised but instead she stared back with all the defiance and self-assurance that her rank granted her. This Vera Bates might have more gall than any servant she'd ever met before but she was the daughter of an Earl, had been raised by _Violet_ _Crawley_ and at the age of twenty had stormed the marriage market and, dismissing those with a title and nothing to back it up, she'd married one of the richest men in town. She was hardly going to be intimidated by an Irish woman who she'd last seen cleaning up Susan's tea tray!

"I'll see you home."

"Home?" Rosamund spoke with disbelief dripping over letter. "I haven't entirely decided I'm not going to the police!"

Vera rolled her eyes and a small smile graced her face, looking amused and mocking in equal measure as she got to her feet and brushed down the coat pointedly.

"To say what? By the time you've hobbled there I'll be long gone and with a war on they're not going to look too kindly on one posh woman missing a coat."

Rosamund had to concede that she had a point and though she refused to be grateful she certainly couldn't get home very quickly on her own at the moment so she took the offered hand and pulled herself to her feet, wondering if it was feasibly possible for this day to inflict anymore indignation upon her! It was just as well they were heading back to Belgravia anyway – she didn't think she could abide the crowds and the _looks_ for another second.

"Do you know where you're taking me?"

"Well you know that thing you've been opening and closing all your life that makes noise? If you use that then I will know won't I?"

Rosamund scowled and stumbled, feeling an arm go around her waist. Apparently there were a few more indignations left before she saw her bed.


End file.
